UMLÄUT 2020 - THE PANDEMIC ISSUE
SHEDDING
Emma Cooney
I’ll shed until there’s nothing left.
The floor will be clean, spotless.
Spine and skull in the sink,
water running over them, dross down the drains.
I’ll scrub my bones,
bleach them until they’re nothing but white.
Blend them in my grandma’s antique bowl,
and place her rings on top,
hang her necklaces off my ribs.
I remember what her cabin in Georgia smelled like: cat food and calla lilies.
I’ll shed my room of it’s paint,
and replace it with her patterned carpets.
Sit alone with her dolls, faces of porcelain:
“pretty, just like you, my Emma.”
Forgetful of her voice, I’ll say it with my own.
Life is shedding, she peels away.
And I’ll move with her.
I’ll shed until there’s nothing left.
Until we are both ashes and refined bones.
Lay next to each other,
swathed in her scarves,
encircled in pretty faced dolls,
rolled Kashan carpets,
gold polished jewelry,
and framed pictures of garden swing
that stood in her garden,
yellow dress draped over cedar seat;
I’ll shed until there’s nothing left.